Free The Traveler's Companion by Christopher John Chater Page B

mean?” Gibbons asked.
    “Chicken feet, monkey brains . . . stuff like that.”
    Gibbons looked at the cart and saw a plate of fried chicken feet. He pointed at it and said, “There’s the chicken feet!”
    The server took the plate off the cart and placed it in front of him, the fried feet sliding and scraping against the porcelain.
    “I didn’t want this,” Gibbons said, recoiling.
    The young woman just giggled, obviously unable to speak English.
    Iverson pointed at what he hoped was a vegetable plate. She served it to him and left.
    “Let me have your phone, Iverson. I don’t have mine on me,” Gibbons said. He pushed the plate aside in disgust.
    Iverson took out his cellular phone and put it on the center of the table. Gibbons snatched it and flipped it open. “You got service.”
    “Good.”
    Gibbons put the phone in his pocket and asked, “Is he looking over here?”
    “What are you going to do, Mark? Are you going to make a break for it? I have to say that would really be a stupid thing to do. First of all, if he were holding us hostage, he wouldn’t be sitting on the other side of a crowded restaurant. Secondly, you can’t survive out there. This is China.” He made a gesture with his hand, suggesting he stay put. “Just wait. I have a plan.”
    “This is what we call field work, Ryan. Get with the program. First rule of war: if you’re captured, attempt to escape.”
    “This isn’t war. It’s dim sum,” Iverson said.
    “This kid is going to publish a book that will obliterate our way of life. The Internet was a problem; this is a catastrophe. A man can travel across the globe in a matter of seconds. Think of the economic repercussions. The threat to national security. How the hell would we secure our borders against something like this? The Zone is a menace to our way of life, Iverson. We need to stop it,” Gibbons said.
    Iverson leaned forward and said in a whisper, “He keeps one of those remotes in his jacket pocket. Have you seen it?”
    “The one with the red button on it?” Gibbons asked.
    “That’s right. My guess is that a signal is being transmitted from a source somewhere, giving him access to the Zone. He mentioned that tomorrow morning the devices that come with the books will be activated. He must have one that works,” Iverson said.
    “We need to get that remote,” Gibbons said.
    “Better yet, we need to locate the source. If we can find the source, we can shut down the whole operation. Let Angela do her work. We’ll find it.”
    “She takes too long. His book hits stores tomorrow. We need a more aggressive strategy. And since neither of us is trained for that type of engagement, we need to find the type of people who are. I’m going to go make a call.” Gibbons turned in the booth and asked, “Is he looking?”
    “He’s coming over here,” Iverson said.
    Gibbons quickly put his legs back under the table and sat up straight.
    “How’s the food?” Go asked.
    “Terrific,” Gibbons said, smiling nervously.
    “Dim sum is an art form rarely taken seriously anymore. Think of all the possible arrangements one could have. It takes an enormous amount of imagination. Dim sum means food of the heart, and anything dealing with the heart deserves care and attention. Don’t you agree?”
    Gibbons wasn’t really listening, but he nodded along.
    “You decided to try the fried chicken feet. I’m impressed, Director. Bold choice,” Go said.
    “It wasn’t exactly by choice,” Gibbons said.
    “Your taste buds have probably been put to sleep by the CIA commissary. Time to revive them,” Go said.
    “Why not?” Gibbons said, pulling the plate back in front of him.
    “The food here is totally fresh. Freshest food in Hong Kong. Try it,” Go said.
    “I’m curious, Mister Go. Earlier you said the Zone proves God exists. Would you mind explaining that to me?” Iverson asked.
    “After lunch, Doctor Iverson. For now, enjoy. And don’t worry about the check. I took